Skin
by katydidit
Summary: He wasn't fighting her—couldn't remind himself why it was necessary to fight her.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **This is definitely a PWP if there ever was one. Came to me around midnight: I knew I shouldn't have had that coffee. It's terribly out of character and doesn't really fit anywhere in any of the House canon. I have no idea who the girl is. Probably she's some twisted Mary-Sue--of _course_ she is the only one able to slip in there past ol' House's defenses. _Of course. _If you're looking for good, meaningful House fanfic, you'll probably want to skip this one.

-

"House! You..." Voice lowered, Wilson glanced around the office, as though maybe someone had his ear pressed against the glass in hopes of catching some really juicy gossip. "You slept with a patient? When? Why didn't I know about this? Does Cuddy know about this? What were you thinking?"

House rolled his eyes as he twirled his cane. "Please," he scoffed. "It's not like you haven't done it. And with a cancer patient, no less. God, at least mine was healthy and you know, not dying. How'd you find out, anyway? I know she didn't tell you—barely spoke English, after all."

"This isn't some joke, House." He had his Exasperated Father voice on now. Things were just getting interesting. And by 'interesting,' of course, House meant 'mind-numbingly-dull'. "Do you know how much trouble you could get the hospital into? Please, for the love of God, tell me she was at least...legal? How could you let this happen?"

House shrugged. Truth be told—not that it ever would be: at least, not by him—he hadn't...actually had a choice. There'd been a knock on his door one night, and he'd somehow dragged his lame, limping ass over to the door. She stepped inside before he could open his mouth to send her away, and leaned against the door after she'd shut it, almost glaring at him. She was determined, for sure.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Nope. He was remembering several nights ago. In perfect English, she'd delivered what he was sure was a barely-lukewarm, though scathing diatribe, probably some first-year psychoanalysis about how he was a jerk on purpose, to drive people away—all very common. She wasn't terribly different from all the other young girls who thought they knew him so well. The one difference was that she was standing in his living room wearing his leather jacket.

_"That's mine," he'd said, gesturing at the coat as he turned to go back to the couch. He'd sunken back down into the cushions, glancing up as she stepped into the dim light. "You're still here?"_

_She'd sat next to him in reply, fingering one of the sleeves. "I stole this," she murmured in that strange, unidentifiable accent of hers, cocking her head to one side._

_"Well, duh." He studied her out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't uncomfortable: at least, not that he'd actually admit to...he was just curious. And Gregory House was never one to turn away a curiosity. Anyway, she was wearing his jacket. "Are you going to give it back?" She rose to her feet again and slipped out of his jacket. She remained standing, even after she'd dropped it into his lap. So she was going to play this game. It was probably pointless to try to get her to move so he could finish this one episode, so instead he flipped off the television and sat back. "So what is it that you want?" he asked, with equal parts condescension and interest in his voice._

"House, who was it? Not the Addison's girl, right? God, she was seventeen...that can't be it. Anyway, she probably wasn't interesting enough for you." A few more files, a few more noises of panic and disapproval. "Have you seen a single patient over the age of forty this month? What are you thinking?"

_Young hands traversed rough, older skin, shirts long gone and pants about to follow. He wasn't fighting her—couldn't remind himself why it was necessary to fight her. Why should he turn her away? She'd probably just come back the next night, anyway. His cane had slipped from his hand as she moved across his lap, fingers mouth lips seeking some place, some hold. Hands, rough not from hard work but simply from age moved across pale skin now, pulling her closer and holding her in place even as he made her work to find his lips. She met his challenge easily, tongue dueling with his own for dominance—of course—and held his shoulders tightly, refusing to allow him to somehow slip away. At this point, there was no danger of that—at this very moment she held him captive not with her body but with her sheer resolve, her determination to win._

"House! Pay attention. She wasn't that Russian prostitute you saw in the clinic two weeks ago, was she? Not even treating her syphilis was enough to keep you away? What is wrong with you, man?" In a way, this was amusing. Normally cool, somewhat reserved even when it came to House himself, Wilson was absolutely panicked. Maybe it was warranted, but to this degree? Hardly.

_Something had flashed in her eyes when he'd finally gathered the presence of mind to push her off, but she'd smiled when he gestured toward the door to his bedroom. The sheets were maybe a little too cold, and his fingers traced across goosebumps on her arms, her legs, but it didn't matter once she was astride him yet again—much more completely this time. He looked at her exactly three times—once when she'd first sank down against him, and again when he felt her falter just slightly, as she came undone there above him. Both times, her eyes were shut tightly, head tilted slightly towards the ceiling._

_This was not an expression of love or affection or any of that garbage that people out there believed in. She didn't ache for him to fulfill some deep pulsating need—beyond the obvious, that is. Still, he dug his fingers hard into her hips, urging her forward, keep moving, don't stop just yet, until...finally. _

_When he opened his eyes, he looked at her that third time. Her eyes weren't starry or dewy: thank God. Instead, she looked part proud, part curious...part regretful. She remained silent and unmoving for several long moments, while their hearts went back to normal, and then she slipped off of him and off of the bed. He'd heard her rummaging through the living room and sorting his clothing from hers._

_"Leave the coat," he'd called, crossing his arms up behind his head as he remained sprawled out, stark naked and relatively satisfied, on his bed. A gentle click of his apartment door, and she was gone._

So was he. With a bit of a groan, House rose from Wilson's seat and headed towards the door. The man made no move to stop him—maybe he'd given up, or just fallen into a despair about what was to be done this time. "Where are you going?" His voice suggested the former. House turned as he left, and shrugged.

"To my office. Patients to save, porn to surf. The usual. Have you seen my coat?"


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: ** What, another? This is probably a very bad plan. One chapter with this strange girl is mysterious. Two is getting too close to Mary-Sue for my own comfort. Eh. This is meant mostly for my own practice—I guess if I put House into weird positions and still try to write him in-character, I'll get better at it in general. Anyway, the girl is back.

-

"Are you ever actually going to give me back my coat?" She stood there again, leaning against the door as always and examining the too-big sleeves of his leather jacket as it hung on her small frame. House shook his head and turned back to the couch, as always, and called over his shoulder. "You know, I wear that so when I fall off my motorcycle, I don't, you know, die."

"You'll still die," she answered simply, sinking into a seat next to him. "There'll just be less skin smeared all over the pavement." A beat, then, "Are you really worried about it?"

No, not really. It was just something he said. Maybe it was to get his damn coat back—it was his, goddammit, and he didn't buy it for some strange girl to wear all the time. It didn't even look that good on her. She was swimming in it—it covered too much of her or something. "If I say yes, will you give it back to me?"

A half-smile flickered across her face, and she slipped his coat over her shoulders, putting it in his lap as she'd done before. This meant nothing, really, but maybe this time he could keep it. Ever since that first night, she'd come two, three times a month—almost always on his roughest nights. Today his leg had been spasming as though dancing to some unheard music, his patient had slipped into a coma, and he'd just grown tired of Chase's accent. Never one for self-pity, he'd originally been planning on simply dining on cold Chinese food and watching some late-night television, but now it seemed he had other plans.

"You know, you're making a friend of mine very nervous," he finally said. They talked more lately than they had that first night, but that wasn't really saying much, was it? She looked at him out of the corner of her eye—a quick movement, but, well, he'd been watching her, so he caught it.

"Girlfriend?" she asked, voice unreadable.

"No."

That was all she needed to know, apparently, as she closed the already-minuscule distance between their bodies and pressed her lips to his. There was never really a set pattern to her visits, except for this. She always kissed him first. Sometimes it took ten minutes before they were moving on with things, and sometimes it was ten seconds. Tonight it was less than that. Her weight pressed lightly against his leg for just a moment, until she'd repositioned herself to minimize contact, and there was something about that quick surge of pain that made him flare to life.

He pushed her off of him immediately, almost tugging her into the bedroom. She followed, strangely obedient, and said not a word when he shoved her against the bed. There was no "House, your leg..." or "Are you sure you can do this?" from her mouth, and he knew that there wouldn't have been, even if he wasn't crushing her lips with his own. She didn't question things like that, didn't care. It was part of the reason he found himself allowing her into his apartment time and time again. Well, that and his coat. She was clever.

He made short work of her clothes, and her long pale fingers did the same for his. Being naked together seemed more normal than being clothed. They both knew how to relate to one another when naked: knew what touches did what, what each twitch of each muscle meant. When clothed, they merely sat together on the couch. It was when the clothes came off that things seemed to roar to life.

She never seemed to bruise, no matter how hard he gripped her hips or thighs or shoulders. Maybe that was the explanation for the long periods of absence between her visits. She was waiting for the marks to fade. That way, they could pretend that they hadn't been doing this all along, that this was some spontaneous decision on her part, or his part. It worked for them. These nights were stress-relief. Some nights he watched her as she moved, and somewhere behind her eyes, she seemed to be working something out, making her way through some private problem. Most nights, he just kept his own eyes closed and worked through his own—what had the patient taken before arriving at his hospital, where had that mysterious rash come from, the likes. Hell, usually he reached a conclusion just as he reached climax.

She didn't hang around afterwards, to complain about his lack of affection or to try to sleep in his bed. Sometimes he half-wished that she would, so he could trace those dark marks blooming slowly against light skin with equal parts pride and penitence. On very rare occasions—maybe when his leg hurt more than usual—he'd initiate a conversation afterwards, to trick her into staying a little longer. She'd slip away from him and sit on the other side of the bed, legs crossed and hands demurely folded in her lap, as though she weren't completely naked in a strange man's bed. Tonight was one of those occasions.

"Boyfriend?" He asked, collapsing from his original position, onto his back against the sheets warmed by her presence and sweat. She shook her head. Of course not. White-knuckled, House gripped his spasming leg. Dammit, girl, talk.

"No one," she elaborated, complying very nicely with his unspoken order. She reached across his body, and for a brief second he thought she was going to demand more of him than his old man body could give. Instead, she pushed his hand away and massaged his leg for him. Massages never worked—at least, not for very long, so he never bothered with that crap.

"Happy ending?" he asked with the smallest of smirks, and arched his eyebrow. She arched hers back at him, and let the comment pass into the night. Her hands were stronger than her body made them seem, fingers probing deep into his useless muscle. There was no relief, only the lack of a greater pain, and he got that, when she finally let her hand slip away.

He didn't care about her background or her past or even if she had some boy at home, wringing his hands nervously and wondering where the marks came from. Why should he? There was one thing that remained ever-present in his mind, throughout his days and their little pseudo-trysts, and that was why she kept coming. Tonight he finally let go, put sound to his thoughts and sought an answer.

"Why me?" He asked. The words were not self-pitying—he'd slice out his voice box before allowing that sort of sound to fall over his lips. They were simply curious. It was a valid question. Why was this young girl returning to his apartment, to his bed, when she could be picking up a stranger at some bar or something? Sometimes he resented her for it. This was a mystery that even he couldn't figure out—partly for lack of trying, but mostly because of her determination.

She smiled, as she slipped off the bed and groped in the dark to find her clothing. She'd gotten better at this sort of thing, through the months. "Why not?" she replied, stepping now through his bedroom door into the living room. He listened carefully, but, as usual, didn't hear the telltale sounds of leather rustling as she picked it up off of the couch. Still, he knew that it wouldn't be there later, when he finally decided to get up and go back to his Mu-shoo Pork.


End file.
